He leaned his elbows on the table and studied Rhys intently. “Here you are, a monk who leads the life of a monk of Majere and follows the ways of a monk of Majere and yet claims he’s not a monk of Majere. Wouldn’t you find that to be of interest?”
“I find everything involving mankind to be of interest, my lord Sheriff,” Rhys replied.
Gerard was about to respond, when their conversation was interrupted. One of his men entered the Inn, came up to him in haste. The two conferred in low tones together, and Gerard rose to his feet.
“Duty calls, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen this brother of yours, Brother, but I’ll keep an eye out for him. I can find you here, I guess?”
“Only if I can engage in some task to earn my keep,” Rhys said firmly.
“See? What did I tell you! Once a monk, always a monk.” Gerard grinned, shook hands again with Rhys, and left. He had gone only a few steps, when he turned back, “I almost forgot. There’s an abandoned temple a few blocks off the Town Square in what we locals call ‘Gods’ Row.’ Supposedly this temple was once dedicated to Chemosh. It’s been empty since anyone here can remember, but who knows? Maybe he’s moved back. Oh, and there’s a tavern off the beaten path known as the Trough. It’s popular with young ne’er-do-wells. You might try looking for your brother there.”
“Thank you, my lord Sheriff, I will investigate both,” Rhys replied, grateful for the tips.
“Good hunting,” called Gerard with a wave as he departed.
Rhys ate his stew and carried his bowl back to the kitchen, where he was finally able to persuade the reluctant Laura Majere to allow him to work to pay for their room and board. Ordering Atta to a corner, where she wouldn’t be underfoot, Rhys washed dishes, hauled water and wood up the kitchen stairs and chopped potatoes, destined to be used for one of the Inn’s best known delicacies.
It was late afternoon by the time Rhys was finished with his chores. Nightshade had not yet returned. Rhys asked the cook directions to the Trough. He received a startled look. The cook was certain Rhys must be mistaken. Rhys persisted and eventually the cook told him, even going so far as to walk to the top of the stairs to point out the road he should take.
Before he left, Rhys took Atta to the stables and gave her the command to wait for him. She flopped down on her belly in the straw, put her head between her paws, and gazed up at him. She was not happy, but she was prepared to obey.
He had considered bringing her with him. Atta was an obedient dog, one of the best that Rhys had ever trained, but she had taken against Lleu from the very start, and after his violent attack on her master, Rhys was afraid that if the two came in contact again, Atta would not wait for her master’s command but would go for Lieu’s throat.
Rhys gave her a pat and some meat scraps by way of apology and to assure her she was not being punished, then he departed, heading for the Trough, which sounded just like the kind of place his brother tended to frequent.
11
Rhys did not go immediately to the Trough as he had planned.
Discovering that God’s Row was not far from the main square, he decided to visit the ruined temple on his way out of town, perhaps gaining information that might prove useful in dealing with his brother, should he chance to find him.
The end of the War of Souls brought the return of the gods, and the return of their clerics, performing miracles in the name of their gods and gaining followers. They built new temples dedicated to the various gods, and here in Solace, as in other cities, the temples tended to be clustered in the same general part of town, much as sword dealers located in Sword Street, cloth merchants in Clothier’s Street, and mageware shops in Magi Alley. Some said this was so that the gods, who’d been duped once by one of their own, could keep a closer eye on each other.
Gods’ Row was located near the Tomb of the Last Heroes. Rhys paused for a look at this monument, which—he was thankful to see—remained faithful to childhood’s memory. Solamnic knights posted honorary guard in front of the Tomb. Kender picnicked on the lawn and celebrated their hero, the famous Tasslehoff Burrfoot. The tomb was graced with a reverence and a solemnity that Rhys found restful. After paying a moment of silent respect for the dead who slumbered within, he continued on past it to the street where the gods lived.
Gods’ Row was bustling with activity, with several new temples under construction. The temple to Mishakal was the largest and most magnificent, for it was in Solace that her disciple, Goldmoon of the Que-Shu, had come bearing the miraculous blue crystal staff. Because of this, the people of Solace always claimed that the goddess took a personal interest in them. The temple to Kiri-Jolith was almost as large and stood side-by-side with Mishakal. Rhys saw several men wearing tabards that marked them as Solamnic knights emerging from this temple.
Next to these two, Rhys was nonplussed to see a temple dedicated to Majere. He had not expected to find such a temple, though, on second thought, he supposed he should have been prepared for it. Solace was a major cross-roads in the region. Locating a temple here provided the clerics of Majere with easy access to a major portion of western Ansalon.
Rhys crossed the street to walk on the opposite side of the temple, keeping to the shadows. If ordinary laymen mistook him for a monk of Majere, Majere’s clerics would do the same and they would find out the truth immediately, for Rhys would not think of trying to lie to them. He might well be waylaid and questioned and brought before the temple’s High Abbot for a “talk.” They might have even heard about the murders from the Prophet of Majere and want to discuss that. The clerics would be well-meaning, of course, but Rhys did not want to waste time answering their questions, nor did he think he was up to the task.
Several clerics in their orange and copper robes were working in the temple garden. They paused in what they were doing to regard him curiously. He continued on his way, his gaze straight ahead.
A blast of wind, the scent of the sea, and the feel of an arm entwined through his arm announced the presence of his goddess.
“Keep close to me, monk,” Zeboim ordered peremptorily. “Majere’s busy-bodies will not notice you this way.”
“I do not need your protection, Majesty,” Rhys said, trying unsuccessfully to withdraw from her embrace. “Nor did I ask you for it.”
“You never ask me for anything,” Zeboim returned, “and I would be so happy to accommodate you.”
She pressed up against him, so that he could feel the softness and the warmth of her.
“What a hard, firm body you have,” Zeboim continued in admiring tones. “All the walking you do, I suppose. Make a scene,” she added, her voice soft as a summer breeze with just a hint of thunder, “and you will spend the rest of the night discussing the good of your soul, when you might be talking to your brother.”
Rhys cast her a sharp glance. “You know where Lleu is?”
“I do, and so do you,” she returned with a meaningful look.
“The Trough?”
“He is there now, tossing down tumbler after tumbler of dwarf spirits. He is drinking so much, one would imagine the makers are about to go extinct. They would, if I had anything to say about it. Hairy little bastards—dwarves.”
“Thank you for the information, Majesty,” said Rhys, once more trying to disentangle himself. “I must go to Lleu—”
“Certainly, you must. You will. But not before you pay a visit to my shrine,” said Zeboim. “It’s just down the road. That is where you were bound, I presume?”
“In truth, Majesty—”
“Never tell a woman the truth, monk,” Zeboim warned. Rhys smiled. “Then, yes, that is where I was bound.”
“And you have some little gift for me?” the goddess asked archly.
“My possessions consist of my scrip and my emmide,” said Rhys, smiling. “Which would you like, Majesty?”