Gaelinar made no reply, but the hand he clamped on Larson's forearm felt sympathetic. He turned in a swirl of goklen robes and walked from the bar.
Larson stared into the amber depths of his beer, not bothering to watch his companion leave.
When Gaelinar returned, Larson was nursing his eleventh drink. He watched his mentor through a pleasant mental haze as the Kensei shuffled between tables and sprawled into the chair across from Larson. "I got your weapon." He slid a sheathed long sword across the ta-bletop. "It may interest you to know the blacksmith's girth was large, his breath reeked of wine, and his workmanship was only fair."
Larson smiled crookedly but made no move to examine Gaelinar's purchase. "You're saying it was beaten on a rock by a fat drunkard." Larson's words emerged unexpectedly slurred. I'm smaller now. And who knows how well elves metabolize alcohol.
Gaelinar frowned his displeasure at Larson's condition. "This sword will have to do until we can get somewhere civilized where men respect their weapons and artisans take pride in their craft."
Larson traced the rim of his mug with a finger. Japan perhaps? Why not. Where else do we have to go now? He took another gulp of beer, not at all certain he could stand to return to a world of Oriental faces or even bear Gaelinar's sullen company much longer.
Gaelinar placed a heavy palm over the hand Larson kept wrapped around his drink. Though the gesture was obviously intended as a plea for moderation, the Kensei spoke with quiet understanding. "Allerum, we need to talk. I…"He broke off with a strangled gasp. His eyes focused on something beyond Larson.
Giddy with alcohol, Larson did not ponder Gaelinar's strange behavior. He twisted in his chair, seeking the target of his mentor's attention. A lone man occupied the table behind Larson. He appeared small; the hand which gripped his wine glass was no bigger than a child's. Despite this, the patron was so well-proportioned, Larson could not guess his height and breadth through beer blurred vision. Jet-black hair fringed finely-sculpted features. A single curl seemed determined to slip into eyes the color of Silme's rankstone. The stranger chewed thoughtfully and returned Larson's stare with friendly interest.
Larson turned back to Gaelinar. "Who's that?"
The Kensei locked his gaze on the stranger, as silent and still as the cahn before a storm. "It's him. The climber at the school."
Larson did not ponder a situation which, if sober, he would have found a nearly impossible coincidence. He swiveled his head back toward the stranger just in time to see the little man rise, brush crumbs from his linen britches, and swagger toward them. Concern whittled at the edges of Larson's alcohol-inspired peace of mind.
The climber marched directly to Larson's and Gaelinar''s table. Selecting a chair between them, he spun it until the backrest faced Gaelinar. The black-haired man straddled the seat. He leaned across the wooden rail and regarded Gaelinar with sharp accusation. "I believe you owe me an explanation."
Gaelinar's jaw clenched. "I believe not."
The climber rested his fingers on the chair back, his voice unexpectedly calm. "I harmed no one at the school, least of all you. But you tried to kill me for no reason. I deserve an explanation."
Larson watched an angry line of crimson spread from Gaelinar's head to his neck. Certain that violence would follow, Larson fought the mind-dimming curtain of the beer. He felt flushed.
"Go away or I'll slay you where you sit! Leave and you'll gain the time it takes me to hunt you down like the animal you are." Gaelinar's answer carried a hostility which went beyond logic. No doubt, he would happily, even eagerly, vent the frustrations of the last few days on this stranger.
"Kensei Gaelinar." The climber's words carried the reprimanding tone of a sergeant, and his German accent reminded Larson of a cheap World War II movie. "We're in a crowded tavern. Barbaric as the tiny Northern towns may seem to foreigners like us, they still follow rules. We all know if you kill me in a public place, you'll have the law to deal with. Your friend there stopped you from doing something stupid once. I think he's smart enough to do so again. Besides…"He smiled arrogantly. "You have both knees beneath the table. To draw a sword, you would have to shift your chair. By that time, I'd be halfway to Cullinsberg."
The next thing Larson knew, Gaelinar had a death grip on the stranger's hand with his thumb on the smallest knuckle. The Kensei drew the other man partway up from his chair.
Surprise flashed in the climber's blue eyes, replaced by a mixture of pain, fear, and an emotion Larson could not identify.
Gaelinar lowered his head until his face nearly touched the stranger's. "I could break your arm with a movement so subtle, no one in the tavern would hold me responsible. We'll meet again, I promise. And I will kill you. But you'll see me coming. Unlike you, I have honor. I wouldn't cut a man in the back." He shoved the smaller man away with an angry violence.
The chair toppled to the floor, but the climber caught his balance with a simple grace. He sidestepped beyond Gaelinar's reach. "I've never stabbed anyone in the back, and I don't plan to start now. My name's Taziar, but I'm called Shadow. We need to talk, desperately. When you decide to start acting civilized, we'll finish this." Taziar whirled. He acknowledged Larson with a stiff nod, then returned to his table.
To Larson, the tavern seemed to be spinning. The incident had occurred so quickly and quietly, only the nearest handful of patrons watched Gaelinar curiously. With an odd detachment, Larson realized Taziar stood no more than an inch above five feet, but he found himself unable to process the information.
Gaelinar leaped up and stormed toward the barkeep. "We're leaving. Now!" he called to Larson over his shoulder.
Larson straggled awkwardly after the Kensei. He watched without comprehension while his mentor rummaged through his pockets for his pouch of coins to pay Larson's beer tab.
On the opposite side of the counter, the barkeep waited with his hand outstretched. As Gaelinar's search became frantic, annoyance chased patience from the barkeep's features. He tapped his fingers on the polished wood, regarding the Kensei with unconcealed suspicion.
When Larson strode up, Gaelinar nudged him with an elbow. "Do you have money?"
Larson seized the countertop unsteadily. "No. Why would I…"
"I'll take care of it." Taziar's sudden appearance beside Gaelinar made even the Kensei stiffen with surprise.
Taziar scattered coins to the countertop.
The barkeep gathered them with a glare at Gaelinar. Briskly, he trotted off to tend his other customers.
Taziar tossed a battered, leather pouch tied with a cord of red and blue to the counter in front of Gaelinar. Immediately, Larson identified the offering as Gaelinar's missing purse. As the Kensei stared in disbelief, Taziar tossed a shuriken to the bar, followed by a second, third and fourth. Each struck the bar with a tinny ring.
Unconsciously, Gaelinar's fingers massaged his empty arm sheath.
Larson watched in slack-mouthed awe as the last shuriken hit the countertop. My god! The little thief must have stolen them while Gaelinar was twisting his arm. Light-headedness transformed the tavern to a blur. But
who the hell could rob Gaelinar blind that fast and without his knowledge?
The same realization must have stunned Gaelinar. For Taziar found the time to sprint for the door before the Kensei's vengeful howl chased him from the tavern.
Al Larson trotted through the twilit streets of the town, seeking respite from the thoughts and emotions which plagued him. He had left Gaelinar, still blustering, at a camp at the perimeter. The pleasurable fuzziness from the beer had faded, leaving Larson battling a residual, frustratingly lingering mental fog. Church. I need a church. Larson had never seriously practiced a religion. But he found himself longing for the warmth of a New York City spring raked by cool, Easter breezes. He missed the surreptitious pinches and finger flicks exchanged with his sister, Pam, and his little brother's whispered prattle about the jelly beans and other goodies that awaited them at home. He had spent his last Easter in a foxhole with seven men who reeked of sweat and fear, pinned beneath the crossfire of the enemy and his own troops. Now, hammered by guilt and uncertainty, he sought familiarity in a world of strangeness. I need to talk with Vidarr. Perhaps he can help me find Baldur's father.