The pitcher was heavy, but Trephas hoisted it as easily as a human might lift a flagon. Then he poured a large measure- enough to fill a goblet-on the ground.
"Hey!" Brandel exclaimed. "My floor!"
Trephas waved him off. "That was a sacred libation," he said. "For Chislev the Beast. The gods must have their due, departed though they may be."
Brandel peered over the bar at the dark stain before the centaur's hooves, then at Trephas's full purse. "Sure," he said. "Whatever you say."
Trephas blew out his lips-a peculiarly horselike gesture- and brought the pitcher to his mouth. He drank it down in one draught. Wine spilled around the corners of his mouth, flowing in twin runnels down his bearded cheeks. Most, however, went straight down his throat. Everyone in the tavern stared. He slammed the empty pitcher on the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Ahhh," he declared lustily. "A bit plain, but 'twill do. Fetch me another."
Brandel was too awed to reply. He grabbed the empty pitcher and headed for the back room again.
Trephas turned to Dezra, his thick eyebrows rising. "Now. Thou wert saying, when I came in, that thou art planning to quit this town?"
Dezra blinked. "Well," she said, "planning's a strong word, but… yeah, I'm leaving."
The centaur nodded. Brandel brought a second pitcher, and Trephas traded another handful of silver coins for it, then poured another libation and drank. He didn't finish it in one gulp this time, but still put it away with astonishing speed.
"Come with me, then," he said. "I have use for thee."
"Use for me?" Dezra repeated. "That's a hell of a way to put it. Anyway, I thought your kind preferred to take young women without asking their permission."
Trephas snorted and let out a braying laugh. "Oh, ho!" he declared. "Of course-those childish tales thy people tell. My folk kidnapping and ravishing maidens and such. No, that isn't my meaning. I want thee to come to Darken Wood, Dezra Majere. I need thy help."
It was Dezra's turn to laugh. “My help? What in Hiddukel's name for?"
The centaur waved his hand. "My people are having trouble with some renegades in the forest. We have need of human aid to put a stop to the trouble. I saw what thou didst at the fair today, and again with that sells word." He set down the pitcher and folded his arms across his chest. "I think thou wouldst be fine for the job."
Dezra pursed her lips, then shook her head. "You've got the wrong Majere. I'm not the one who goes off on grand quests for people I hardly know. Why don't you ask my father?"
"I already did. He refused."
Dezra looked at him sharply, her eyes narrowing. They were both silent for a time. At length, Dezra coughed and glanced away. "Maybe I am interested, after all," she said. "What's in it for me?"
Trephas looked at her, confused.
Dezra nodded at the centaur's purse. "I'm not going to Darken Wood for free, you know."
"Oh," he said. He thought on this. "I suppose I could give thee some silver… ."
"Steel," she corrected. "Two hundred pieces-and that's just for me to go to Darken Wood with you. Once I'm there, if I decide to help, I'll expect more."
He pondered, pawing the floor with his forehoof. "Very well," he said after a moment. "I didn't realize thy people sold themselves so, but there it is. I'll pay thee, if thou wilt go. We leave in the morning."
"It's a deal," she said, offering her hand. He took it, clasping her wrist painfully tight. She raised her stoup. "To Darken Wood, then."
"To Darken Wood," Trephas echoed, flashing his big-toothed grin as he lifted his pitcher.
It had been a long night for Uwen Gondil. He'd eaten an obscene amount of food at the feast, and drank enough ale to make the ground rock underfoot. He'd also earned the attentions of many young townswomen. They'd heard of his heroics at the fair, and at times there were whole packs of them trying to catch his eye.
It wasn't that Uwen didn't appreciate all that giggling and eyelash-batting-he was seventeen, after all-but his attention was elsewhere. How could it be otherwise, when he'd lost his heart today? So, even when the chandler's daughter was whispering unladylike words in his ear, he'd kept an eye on the crowds, searching for Dezra Majere.
Sometime after midnight, when all but the young and the foolish had gone home, Uwen had found himself talking with Borlos, the bard, who claimed to be Caramon Majere's best friend.
"This ain't the first time this has happened," Borlos said, drunkenly flinging his arm about Uwen's shoulders. "That girl's been in more trouble than a kender in a gnome-hole. Anyway, she's more than you want to handle, believe me. Why not try her sister instead?"
He'd pointed at a red-haired girl who was busy keeping people's flagons filled. Uwen had walked over to her and exchanged a few words, but it had led nowhere. Laura was nice, yes, and friendly, but she was too docile and demure. Not at all like her sister. They'd drifted apart, and he'd resumed his vigil.
In the end, Dezra didn't show up; disappointed, Uwen stumbled away from the fire's embers. The sky was gray, brightening with coming dawn. He was weary and still a bit drunk, and had to stop now and then to lean against a vallen-wood's trunk.
It was during one of these stops that he saw her. He blinked in surprise as he watched Dezra skulk through the morning mist, bound for the fairgrounds. He thought to call out to her, but decided against it. There was something about the stealthy way she moved that made him think it would be a bad idea. Taking a deep breath, he pushed away from the tree and followed.
The fairgrounds were quiet and still. Most of the merchants would set out on the road this afternoon-after sleeping contentedly through the morning-bound for Haven or Gateway, or towns farther away. Dezra crept between the stalls, stopping now and again to lift a tent flap or peer inside a sack. At last she smiled, picked up a loaf of bread, and tucked it into a pouch at her hip.
Uwen gaped, not believing his eyes. There was no one to see her but him.
He should stop her, he knew. His parents had taught him good from evil, enough to know stealing wasn't right. But he didn't. He was captivated, watching the way her lithe form moved, the crooked smile that curled her lips. She crept on, and he went after her.
The bread wasn't all she stole-she also filched a wheel of white cheese, a few apples, and several hard sausages. She hooked a full ale-skin from a brewer's stall, as well as a silver flask of stronger spirits. From a tailor, she took a hooded, gray cloak. Last, she stopped at a weaponsmith's tent. The smith's apprentice, who should have been standing guard, slumped in his chair, snoring and drooling. Dezra eyed the drowsing lad, then nodded to herself, chuckling softly. Quiet as a shadow, she slipped into the tent. Uwen held his breath until she stepped out again, nearly a minute later. She buckled a swordbelt about her waist as she emerged. A slender, scabbarded blade now hung at her hip.
Uwen Gondil had lived most of his life on his family's farm. He'd never seen a woman wear a sword before. His fascination with Dezra Majere grew even stronger.
She was moving again, faster this time. He followed, the fog muting his thudding footsteps. Once she was out of the square, Uwen expected Dezra to head back to the Inn of the Last Home. To his surprise, she turned west instead, toward the edge of town. He kept after her.
Suddenly, another shape emerged from the fog in front of Dezra. Uwen stopped, staring in amazement. He'd heard there'd been a centaur at the fair, but he hadn't seen the beast. Now his mouth dropped wide open.
Dezra and the centaur spoke together a moment, too soft to hear, then he bent low beside her. She swung a leg across his withers, pulled herself astride his back, and gripped his shoulders as he rose again. Turning, he trotted west, out of Solace and onto the Haven Road.