Though troubled by the surreptitious exchange, Larson persuaded himself his mistrust stemmed from war-inspired paranoia. Why should peasants in a town at peace wish to harm a stranger, even if he is an outsider? The self-questioning revived recent memory. When Larson had first arrived in this unusual world, Bramin had attacked furiously without provocation. Torn between common sense and experience, Larson considered running from the inn. The serving boy approached with a plateful of food. Ultimately, its mouthwatering aroma convinced Larson to stay.
The boy set the wooden dishes before his patrons and scuttled back to the bar. Larson's first few mouthfuls took the edge from his hunger and with it his appreciation for the meal. He reached for a nonexistent salt shaker, caught himself, and leaned back with a sigh. "Everything in this world tastes the same. Isn't there any salt?"
Brendor dropped a lamb rib from fingers slick with grease. "Salt? I can do that!" Before Larson thought to protest, the boy performed a graceless gesture and spoke in a high-pitched whisper. "Salt!"
Nothing obvious happened, although Brendor panted with exertion. Relieved, Larson stroked the crusted scabs on his cheeks, a memento of Brendor's last magical endeavor. Painfully aware of his own inadequacies, Larson flashed the boy an understanding smile. Dwelling on the matter might embarrass Brendor, and so the elf passed it off with casual indulgence. "Tough luck, kid." He took a bite of cheese. A flavor bitter as poison spread through his mouth and pinched his face until he gagged. Between coughs which expelled half-chewed morsels, Larson managed to speak. "I asked for: salt: not soap!" He washed the taste from his mouth with a gulp of ale, left with watering eyes, a sore throat, and a memory that made his nose wrinkle with disgust.
Appetite ruined, Larson avoided Brendor's shamefully lowered face. He pushed his chair from the table and walked to the bar where a fat innkeeper flicked at the warped pine counter with a damp rag. Ura seemed to take no notice of the approaching elf, but the huge man at the bar squared his shoulders and edged closer. The movement put Larson on the defensive, but he forced aside discomfort as he prepared to bargain with the barkeep. "I'd like to rent a suite," he said in a businesslike voice which revealed none of his trepidations. Familiar with streetside markets, Larson prepared to snap back half the quoted price.
Ura raised his head. "Fourteen silver."
"S-what?" Composure lost, Larson stared. Ura's rate was too far beyond expectation to be other than a mistake.
"Fourteen silver," repeated Ura. He regarded Larson with scornful disinterest.
"That's outrageous!"
Ura shrugged. "Fourteen silver," he said with indisputable finality. "Take it or get out of my inn."
Larson opened his mouth to protest, but another man spoke from the tavern doorway. "You heard him. This place smells bad enough without your kind, elf!"
Larson caught at one pointed ear, suddenly feeling like an American in a North Vietnamese prison camp. He turned to his antagonist with feigned unconcern and adopted a false smile. The man at the door stood several inches taller than him, and Larson did not care to discover how much of the bulk beneath his chain shirt was padding. Likely the stranger was a member of Forste -Mar's guard force, summoned by the man who had left the bar earlier and now stood near the guardsman.
Brendor came to Larson's side. Afraid for the child's life, Larson stepped before him protectively. To his relief, a stranger at one of the tables came to their defense. "He's not going to hurt anyone, Anrad. He's a light elf."
Larson bit his lip with understanding. Again Gaelinar's description returned to him, and nervous energy revived the most distressing sentence of his explanation: At times, dark elves are welcomed because of the legends of light elves, and light elves are slain for the ancient crimes of their dark cousins. Bramin had turned the town of Forste -Mar against faery folk, but a Dragonrank mage was too powerful for peasants' vengeance. Over years, unvented hatred had intensified, seeking a victim. Unless Larson acted with heroic discretion, he might pay with his and Brendor's lives for Bramin's evil. He faced the barkeep again. "I just want:"
"Fourteen silver and not one copper less," said Ura with pointed hostility.
Goaded by Ura's patrons, Anrad stepped boldly into the barroom's center. "Let him sleep in the stables for two silver."
Steeling himself, Larson turned. His fingers plucked nervously at his tunic, but his words were carefully selected and innocuously spoken. "It only cost a copper for the horses."
Anrad folded his arms across his broad chest. "But you'll want to bed every beast in the stable." His gaze dropped to Brendor, and his lips twisted in a sneer. "Oh, but I see you've brought your own entertainment."
Brendor pushed in front of Larson. Red-faced with the perfect rage only a child can experience, he struggled to speak without screaming. "Your mother's safe, there are no asses in the stable!"
Anrad's face flushed. He raised a hand threateningly. "You little bastard."
Anger flared in Larson. Suddenly beyond thought of the consequences, he cocked his fist and leaped for the guardsman. A callused palm caught Larson's wrist. He was wrenched forcefully about to face the huge man at the bar whose bear-sized hand locked on his arm. "You two want to kill each other, do it outside!"
"Fine!" Anrad marched out the door, chuckling, and the crowd of patrons funneled into the street.
No stranger to bar fights, Larson tore free of the bouncer's grip and strode toward the door. Memory of his reflection in the pond bred doubts. This elf-form robbed him of the bulk won from years of wrestling and weight training. He could only hope he had retained some of his strength, and he would have to remember to throw full effort into every punch. Intent on strategy, Larson strode blindly from the inn and nearly impaled himself on Anrad's naked sword.
Larson recoiled with a yell. His fist closed on Valvitnir's hilt, and the blade sprang from its sheath so quickly he was unsure whether he or the sword initiated the movement. Anrad swept for Larson's chest. Larson ducked behind Valvitnir. Sword crashed against sword, and Anrad's blade shattered to faintly glowing shards.
Anrad retreated, eyes wild. More familiar with fist fighting, Larson handed his sword to Brendor. "I can take him without a weapon." Hands for-ward, he closed, prepared to pummel the guardsman before he could recover from surprise. Anrad dropped his useless hilt and dodged under Larson's swing. His return punch crashed against the elf's jaw, hurling him backward. Larson tried to block, but the guard's other fist thudded into his gut, stealing breath.
Larson staggered. The cries of the crowd blended to undecipherable noise. Anrad's pale fist rushed toward his face. Larson blocked with his left arm, then cut downward and caught the guardsman's wrist. He seized Anrad's elbow in his right hand and whipped his opponent around in a wrestling drag. Larson's arm closed about Anrad's neck. The guard struggled momentarily then dropped to the ground, breathless.
Pain-maddened, Larson kicked Anrad's mailed side. Impact with the heavy chain links shot agony along Larson's foot. Anrad winced with a gasp. Larson smashed his heel into Anrad's face. Bones cracked, and blood poured from the guardsman's nose. Anrad lay with closed eyes, emitting small panting sobs.
Only then did Larson consider the battle won. In the same situation, James Bond or Errol Flynn would have delivered some witty line and strode off into the sunset. But Larson felt too disgusted for endearing dramatization. His jaw ached with every heartbeat, and he could taste blood. Without a word, he wheeled away.
Dust billowed around the scene of the fight. Larson waited until it settled and searched for Brendor. The boy was gone. Larson's wits scattered as panic replaced ire. He cast about frantically. " Brendor . Where's my sword? Brendor?"