Even though it was early, the place was not empty. Three of the tables were occupied, two by lone drinkers, the third by a cluster of five men in quiet conversation. The taverner half-dozed on a stool near the fire, one eye open to watch the customers. The serving maid was out of sight, probably helping the cook in the kitchen.
As Teldin entered, those capable of it looked up and made note of the stranger without stopping their own conversations. Just as they were about to dismiss the new arrival, a shadowed form squeezed through the door behind him. All at once every voice went silent, all eyes trained on the giff. The innkeeper suddenly sat up, his eyes wide open.
Teldin did his best to ignore the stares; he was getting used to them. Picking a table, he pulled up a bench and signaled the innkeeper. Gomja took another bench and sat. It promptly broke under the giff’s weight, dropping Gomja to the floor, but no one laughed. No one made a murmur. No one dared to. Embarrassed, Gomja gave it up and sat cross-legged on the floor; the table still only reached his chest.
“Do you have rooms?” Teldin asked the innkeeper.
The man nodded. “Upstairs, third on the right.” After a quick haggle, Teldin paid for beds and a pot of ale. As he and the giff drank, Gomja looked around the commons with wide eyes. The others in the room gave the pair surreptitious glances, trying to deduce just who or what the giff was.
As Teldin was mournfully finishing his ale, one of the men at the other table walked over and stood opposite the farmer. While he was not tall, perhaps a half-foot shorter than Teldin, the stranger was heavily muscled. He was dressed in battered leather armor, crudely patched. The stranger’s face was broad, his nose squashed and broken in several places. Thick, black tangles of hair hung from under his leather skullcap, the type a warrior wore under his helmet. A businesslike knife hung at his side. There was something familiar about the man, but, try as he might, Teldin couldn’t place him.
The stranger stood, not saying anything, only studying the farmer’s face. “Teldin Moore, is that you?” he finally asked, leaning closer to get a better look in the gloomy light.
“Yes,” Teldin answered warily.
“By the damned gods! I knew it!” the stranger burst out. “Don’t you remember me? Vandoorm, Vandoorm of the Solanthus Light Infantry?” He spread his hands open wide in a gesture of friendliness.
Suddenly the face and name connected in Teldin’s mind. “Vandoorm! Why-what-what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in five years!” Teldin got to his feet and thrust out a hand to his old companion. The two warmly embraced, greeting each other as old friends should.
Their salutations finished, Vandoorm looked at the giff, still sitting on the floor. “What the hell is this?” he asked softly of Teldin.
“This,” Gomja said firmly and with some irritation, "is Trooper Gomja."
“He’s a … friend.” Teldin hastily explained the gill’s appearance. Gomja watched, waiting for any sign of suspicion from their visitor, but the story seemed to be accepted. Vandoorm, in turn, introduced his companions, four tough old campaigners like himself. In no time at all, Teldin and Vandoorm fell to reminiscing about old times. Hours passed as they ate, drank, and talked, until it was quite dark outside.
Although fascinated by their tales, Gomja could barely keep himself awake. The conversation seemed to go on forever with stories, lies, and questions. Finally, Teldin stood and embraced his friend once more. “In the morning, then,” the farmer said as the two parted.
“Indeed. I’ll be at the west gate in the morning,” Vandoorm gruffly said. “If you need work, show up. I can always use a good hand like yours.” With that, he and his companions left for the night.
Rousing Gomja to his feet, Teldin led the sleepy-headed giff upstairs, talking excitedly as he went. "It’s a stroke of luck to meet Vandoorm like that. He’s a mercenary now, moving around from job to job. Tomorrow he’s off to Palanthas to look for work. People say there’s a sage, Astinus, by name, who lives in Palanthas. Maybe he can tell me what’s so special about this cloak. I’m damn well never going to find out here. Curse my cousins and all.”
“And maybe get me home, sir?” Gomja asked sleepily.
“I don’t know, Trooper Gomja. Look, I just want to get this cloak off and go back to my farm. Maybe it’s time you were on your own,” Teldin suggested as he reached the second floor landing.
Gomja looked confused. “But I don’t know were to go."
Teldin didn’t have an answer for that. Even though he knew otherwise, the farmer felt obligated to help the giff. The hours of drink swirled in his head and made it hard to think, until he regretted bringing the subject up. “Never mind. Forget about it. Right now you can get some sleep.” Without waiting for the giff, Teldin trudged into the room and collapsed for the night. Gomja was not far behind.
Chapter Eight
Teldin sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, his eyes closed in intense concentration. A ray of morning sunlight crept slowly across the dull wooden floor to play on the farmer’s leg. Across the small room, Gomja stood at the washstand, scrubbing his face in the cold water of the basin. The sound of water trickling and dripping mingled with the occasional cries of the vendors from the street below. Gomja began to hum an off-key march, the song droning mournfully. Before the giff had gotten more than a few notes into the song, Teldin flung himself back on the bed in exasperation.
“Damn! What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Teldin shouted toward the ceiling. He beat his palms in frustration on the moth-chewed blankets, raising a cloud of dust. “I can’t take this damned thing off. 1 can’t even get it to change size, and I know it can do that!” In a decidedly poor mood, Teldin rolled off the bed and paced over to the window, like a fox prowling along the edge of a chicken coop.
The giff watched the outburst wide-eyed but said nothing, since this had been going on all morning. As a trooper, it wasn’t his place to comment anyway. Keeping one wary eye on the farmer, the giff returned to his ablution.
“Again,” Teldin said with a forced sigh as he struggled to calm his temper. The human’s eyes closed, brows knitted, and teeth clenched as he translated mental concentration into physical effort. There was a tickle at the back of his neck like the pull of static from a woolen sweater. The tickle grew stronger and ran down his spine, raising the hairs ever so slightly. Teldin stopped and looked at the shimmery fabric that hung from his shoulders. There was no doubt that it was now shorter than before.
Teldin took a breath and tried again. “Shrink,” he ordered. In his mind, he imagined the cloak as a stubborn mule. The tickling sensation returned and then seemed to reverse, drawing in toward his neck. The cloak was once again a small collar around his neck. “Something’s finally worked right,” he sighed in triumph.
While the giff finished scrubbing and dressing, Teldin practiced his newfound control, at first hesitantly and then with greater and greater confidence. The cloak grew, shrank, grew, and shrank again. “It works! I think of it like a mule, and it seems to react!” The farmer chortled triumphantly. After so many disasters and disappointments, this small success was elevated to the status of a major victory. Reducing the cloak to little more than a curious necklace, Teldir grabbed his boots and prepared to go.
From somewhere Trooper Gomja had found an apple and was chewing on it noisily. “Where to now, sir?” the giff asked as he gulped down the last remains, core and all.
“Weren’t you listening? I’m leaving town, going to Palanthas,” Teldin answered, almost cheerily. “I made arrangements with Vandoorm to meet him at the west gate. There I’ll buy a horse and ride to Palanthas.” Teldin didn’t even bother to look at the giff while he spoke, but he stressed the singular nature of his plans. As soon as the second boot was pulled on, the human sprang to his feet and hurriedly began stuffing his few possessions into a small bundle.