The barmaid interrupted him. “I know that the monks of Majere take vows of poverty. It’s all right. You’re a guest of the Inn this day. There’s food and drink for you and mats in the common room for you and your friend.”
She cast a glance in the direction of Atta and Nightshade, but whether by “friend” she meant the dog or the kender was left open.
“I thank you, mistress, but I cannot accept your offer, which is kind, but does not apply in my case. I am not a monk of Majere. As I said, I am searching for someone and I thought perhaps he had been here. His name is Lleu—”
“Is there a problem, Marta?”
A large man with a shock of straw-colored hair and a face that might have been called ugly, but for its strength of character and a genial smile, came up to where Rhys and the barmaid were talking. The man was clad in a leather vest. He wore a sword at his hip and a gold chain around his neck, all of the finest quality. “The monk here has refused our hospitality, Sheriff,” said the barmaid.
“I cannot accept her charity, my lord,” said Rhys. “It would be given under false pretenses. I am not a monk of Majere.” The man held out his hand.
“Gerard, Sheriff of Solace,” he said, smiling. He cast an admiring glance at the dog and the penned-up kender. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for work, Brother, but if you are, I’d be glad to take you on. I saw the way you handled yourself out there in the line this morning, and that kender-herding dog of yours is worth its weight in steel.”
“My name is Rhys Mason. Thank you for the offer, but I must decline.” Rhys paused, then said mildly, “If you were watching what was happening between those men and the elf, my lord Sheriff, why did not you intervene?”
Gerard grinned ruefully. “If I rushed around trying to stop every knife fight that took place in Solace, Brother, I’d never do anything else. I spend my time on more important matters, such as trying to keep the town from being raided, looted, and burned to the ground. Gregor and Tak are the local bullies. If things had gotten out of hand, I would have come down to settle those boys. You had the situation under control, or so it looked from my end. Therefore, Brother, you, the dog, and the kender will be my guests for supper. It’s the least I can do for you, seeing as how you did my work for me this day.”
Rhys felt he could accept this offer and he did so. “That’ll do, Atta,” he called, and the dog jumped up and returned to his side.
Nightshade was on his way over to join Rhys when the kender was accosted by a plump, middle-aged woman, wearing a black shawl over her head, who said she wanted to talk to him. The two sat down and were soon deep in conversation; the kender looking extremely sympathetic, the woman dabbing her eyes with the hem of her shawl.
“She’s a recent widow,” said Gerard, frowning at the kender. “I wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of her grief, Brother.”
“The kender is what is called a `nightstalker‘, my lord,” Rhys explained. “He can actually do what he says he can do—speak to the dead.”
Gerard was skeptical. “Truly? I’ve heard of his sort before. Didn’t know they actually existed. Figured it was just another tale the little buggers made up to make nuisances of themselves.”
“I can vouch for Nightshade, my lord Sheriff,” said Rhys, smiling. “He is not your typical light-fingered kender. He is able to communicate with the dead. I’ve seen him do it. Unless, of course, the spirits have moved on, in which case he can impart that information. Perhaps he can be of comfort to the widow.”
Gerard eyed the kender. “I knew a kender once,” he said quietly, speaking more to himself than to Rhys. “He wasn’t your typical kender either. I’ll give this one a chance, Brother, especially if you’ll vouch for him.”
A moment later, Nightshade came hurrying over. “The widow and I are going to the burial ground to talk to her husband. She misses him most dreadfully and she wants to make sure he’s doing all right without her. I’ll probably be gone most of the afternoon. Where shall I meet you?”
“You can meet your friend here,” said Gerard, interrupting Rhys. “You have a place in the common room to sleep tonight.”
“No more sleeping in stables! That’s wonderful. I’m getting really tired of the smell of horses,” said Nightshade, and before Rhys could contradict the sheriff, the kender had dashed off.
Gerard eyed Rhys. “I’m holding you responsible for emptying his pockets when he comes back.”
“You needn’t worry about that, my lord. Nightshade’s not very good at ‘borrowing.’ If he tries, he’s so inept that he’s almost always caught in the act. He is much more interested in speaking to the dead.”
Gerard snorted and shook his head. Sitting across the table from Rhys, the sheriff regarded the monk curiously, more interested in him than in the kender, which, the gods knew, Solace had in abundance.
The barmaid brought over bowls of savory stew, so thick with meat and vegetables that Rhys could barely dig his spoon into it. She put down a bowl of water and a meaty bone for Atta, who accepted the treat after a glance at Rhys and suffered the barmaid to pat her head. Atta dragged her bone under the table, plopped down on top of Rhys’s feet, and began to gnaw at it contentedly.
“You said you were searching for someone?” Gerard asked, leaning back in his chair, looking at Rhys with a pair of eyes that were a startling shade of blue. “I don’t begin to try to keep track of everyone who comes into Solace, but I do get around. Who is it you’re looking for?”
Rhys explained that he was searching for his brother. He described Lleu as wearing the robes of a cleric of Kiri-Jolith and spending his time in taverns and ale houses.
“Where are you from?”
“Staughton,” Rhys answered.
The sheriff raised his eyebrows. “You’ve traveled a long way in search of this young man, Brother; gone to a lot of trouble. Seems to me there must more to it than a family worried about a young vagabond.”
Rhys had decided to keep the truth about Lieu to himself, knowing that if he told anyone that his brother was guilty of murder, Lieu would be hunted down and slaughtered like a wild beast. Rhys found himself liking this man, Gerard, whose calm demeanor accorded well with Rhys’s own. If Rhys did find Lieu, he would be obliged to hand him over to the local authorities until he could be brought to justice by the Prophet of Majere. The Prophet would be the one to determine Lieu’s fate, since his crime had taken place in one of the monasteries. Rhys decided to tell the sheriff at least part of his story.
“I am sorry to say that my brother has lately become a follower of Chemosh, God of the Dead,” he told Gerard. “I fear that he is the victim of some evil spell cast on him by a disciple of Chemosh. I need to find Lleu in order to have the enchantment broken, if that is possible.”
“First Takhisis, now Chemosh,” Gerard growled, running his hand through his hair and making it stand straight up. “Sometimes I wonder if the return of the gods was such a good thing. We were doing all right on our own—not counting the Dragon Overlords, of course. We’ve got trouble enough now, what with displaced elves, rumors of a goblin army build-up in southern Qualinesti, and our local robber baron, Captain Samuval. We don’t need gods like Chemosh coming around to complicate matters. But then, I guess you must’ve figured that out for yourself, Rhys, since you’re no longer a monk of Majere, eh? You’re wearing monks’ garb, though, so you must be a monk of some sort.”
“I can see why you were hired on as sheriff, my lord,” Rhys said, meeting the blue eyes and holding them. “You have the ability to interrogate a man without letting him feel like he is being interrogated.”
Gerard shrugged. “No offense, Brother. I’m a good sheriff because I like people, even the rascals. This job is never boring, I can tell you that much.”