The elf said nothing in reply. Stepping out of line, he walked around the two humans, and stepped back into line, in front of them.
“You damn grass-eater, get the hell outta my way!” The man called Gregor seized the elf by the shoulder and spun him around.
Steel flashed, and Gregor sprang backward.
The elf held a knife in his hand.
The two humans glanced at each other; then, doubling their huge fists, they came surging forward.
The elf was ready to lunge, when he suddenly found his way blocked, as Rhys stepped between the combatants. Rhys did not raise his staff, nor did he raise his voice.
“You may have my place in line, gentlemen,” he said. The men—all three—stared at him, mouths agape.
“I am near the front, at the foot of the stairs,” Rhys continued pleasantly. “There, where the kender and the dog are waiting. We are next to go up. Take my place and welcome, all three of you.”
Behind Rhys, the elf said vehemently, “I do not need your help, monk. I can handle these two myself.”
“By spilling their blood?” Rhys asked, glancing around. “What will that accomplish?”
“Monk?” repeated one of the humans, eyeing Rhys uncertainly.
“By his weapon, he is a monk of the Mantis,” said the elf. “Or Majere, as you humans know it. Though I never saw one wearing sea green robes,” he added scornfully.
“Take my place, sirs,” Rhys repeated, gesturing toward the stairs. “A mug of cool ale to quench a hot temper, eh?”
The two humans eyed each other. They eyed Rhys and they eyed his staff. There was no good way out of this. If they’d had the support of the crowd, they might have continued the fight. As it was, Rhys’s offer had clearly captured the crowd’s fancy. Perhaps these two were well-known bullies, for people were grinning at their discomfiture.
The two men lowered their fists.
“C’mon, Tak, I’m not hungry anymore,” one said scathingly, turning on his heel. “The stench has killed my appetite.”
“Yeah, you can drink with their kind if you want, monk,” sneered the other. “I’d sooner suck down swamp water.”
The elf glowered at Rhys. “That was my battle. You had no right to interfere.”
He, too, walked off, heading in the opposite direction.
Rhys returned to his place in line. Several in the crowd applauded and an old woman reached out to touch his shabby, travel-stained robes “for luck.” He wondered what she would think if she knew he was not truly a monk of Majere but a sworn follower of Zeboim. He realized, with an inward sigh, that it probably wouldn’t make any difference. He had pleased her, pleased the crowd, as they would have been pleased by a Punch and Judy puppet show.
Rhys took his place in line, next to Nightshade, who was all agog with admiration and excitement. The kender’s eager questions were interrupted by the man who regulated the flow of traffic into the inn.
“Go on up, monk,” he called with a flourishing gesture, “before you drive off the rest of my customers.”
Everyone laughed and the crowd cheered as Rhys, Nightshade, and Atta climbed the stairs, with Nightshade waving and leaning over the rails precariously to shout out, “Would any of you like to make contact with a loved one who has passed over? I can talk to the dead—”
Rhys took hold of the kender by the shoulder and gently guided him through the open door.
The Inn of the Last Home had achieved ever-lasting fame during the War of the Lance, for it was here that the legendary Heroes of the Lance began a quest that would end with the defeat of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. The Inn was owned by the descendants of two of those heroes, Caramon and Tika Majere. Listening to the gossip as he’d been standing in line, Rhys had learned a considerable amount about the Inn, its owners, and Solace in general.
A daughter, Laura Majere, ran the inn. Her brother, Palin, had once been a famed sorcerer, but was now the Lord High Mayor of Solace. There was some sort of scandal involving his wife, but that was apparently resolved. Laura and Palin had a sister, Dezra. People rolled their eyes when she was mentioned. The Sheriff of Solace was a friend of Palin’s, a former Solamnic knight named Gerard. He was a popular sheriff, it seemed, with a reputation for being tough, but fair-minded. He had a thankless job, as far as most of the gossipers were concerned, for Solace had grown far too fast for its own good. In addition, it was located near the border of what had once been the elven kingdom of Qualinesti. The dragon Beryl had driven the elves from their homes and Qualinesti was now a wild, lawless and uncivilized no-man’s land, refuge to roving bands of outlaws and goblins.
The Inn of the Last Home had undergone a number of changes down through the years. Those who recalled it from the days of the War of Lance would not have recognized it now. The inn had been destroyed at least twice by dragons (maybe more times, there was an argument on that score) and besides being rebuilt had undergone a series of expansions and renovations. The famous bar, made from the vallenwood tree, was still there. The fireplace beside which the infamous mage Raistlin Majere once sat had been shifted to a different location to make room for more tables. An additional wing had been built to accommodate the growing crowds of travelers. The kitchen was no longer where it had once been but was in a different place entirely. The food was still as good—better, some said—and the ale was still spoken of in near reverent terms by ale-connoisseurs all over Ansalon.
Upon entering, Rhys was impressed by the atmosphere of the inn, which was merry without being boisterous or rowdy. The busy barmaids found time to laugh and exchange friendly barbs with the regulars. A broom-wielding gully dwarf kept the floor spotless. The long wood plank tables where the customers sat were clean and neat.
Nightshade immediately launched into his spiel. The kender spoke extremely fast, knowing from experience, that he rarely got far before he was summarily stifled. “I can talk to dead people,” he announced in a loud voice that carried clearly over the laugher and the shouting and the clanking of pewter and crockery. “Anyone here have loved ones who have died recently? If so, I can talk to them for you. Are they happy being dead? I can tell you. Have you been searching for Uncle Wat’s will? I can find out from his spirit where he left it. Did you forget to tell your late husband how much you loved him? I can pass on your regards …”
Some customers ignored him completely. Others regarded the kender with expressions that ranged from grinning amusement to shock and indignation. A few were starting to look seriously offended.
“Atta, away,” ordered Rhys quietly, and the dog leapt into action.
Trotting over to the kender, Atta pressed her body against his legs, so that he had no choice but to back up or tumble over her.
“Atta, nice dog,” said Nightshade, patting her head distractedly. “I’ll play with you some other time. I have to work now, you see—”
He tried to circle around the dog, tried to step over her. Atta dodged and wove, and all the while continued to force the kender backward until she had him wedged neatly into a corner, with a table and chairs hemming him in on two sides and the patient dog in front.
Atta dropped down on her belly. If Nightshade moved a muscle, she was back on her feet. She did not growl, was not menacing. She just made certain the kender stayed put.
As the patrons of the Inn watched this in awe, a barmaid hastened over, offering to guide Rhys to a table.
“Thank you, no,” he said. “I came for information, that is all. I am looking for someone—”