The tension was enough to drive a halfling to drink. Olive drained her glass and thumped it on the tabletop, demanding a refill. House Thalavar would pick up the tab, making it possible to order drink after drink without actually plunking any money down or keeping track of how much one spent on liquor. Olive wasn't sure that was a good thing, but it was certainly a comforting one.
Her second order of business in Westgate was what to do about the new croamarkh, Victor Dhostar.
When the evil mage Flattery had disintegrated her friend Jade, Olive had wasted no time avenging Jade's death. Of course, then she'd had some formidable allies: Giogi Wyvernspur, who could shapechange into a wyvern; the mage. Cat; and the wizard, Drone. Here her only allies were an aging actress, a boy who had only just retired from his career as a Night Mask, and a castle full of pampered halflings. Then there was the question of popularity. No one had liked Flattery-all agreed he was a sick menace to society. Victor Dhostar, though, was a slick piece of work, friendly, smiling, concerned. Whatever emotion or reaction was appropriate to the situation, he could summon it to the surface. Even Alias had been fooled. Mail's Mouth, he even had me charmed that first day, Olive recalled. On top of all that charm, he was croamarkh. While he was not quite a king, plotting his destruction certainly smacked of regicide, a serious crime even in a place like Westgate.
More importantly, without more information, she couldn't really assess the extent of Victor's guilt. He might not have anything to do with Alias's death. The swordswoman was, after all, always taking risks. The Nigbt Masters might have destroyed her whether or not Victor Dhostar was a nice guy. Victor could just be a selfish, power-hungry jerk who'd used Alias. The world was full of them. Olive fumed whenever she thought of the way he'd carried off the swordswoman's arm, as if he owned it. Victor Dhostar was definitely one more reason to drink.
A pottery mug of Dragon's Bite hovered at eye level, carried by a slim female halfling about half Olive's age. The younger woman was dressed like a Luiren schoolteacher, in a long^ black divided skirt and a starched white blouse buttoned tight at the wrists and to the top of its high collar. Her reddish blonde hair was twisted into a severe bun St the back of her head. She wore a bitter, no-nonsense expression on her severely angular face, which Olive thought might actually stop a beholder in its tracks, if beholders could leave tracks.
"You're drinking too much," the younger halfling said, setting the mug down none too gently. She sat down at the table across from Olive..
"Never would have guessed," Olive snarled, taking a long pull on the fresh mug. She glared across the table at the new arrival until it became clear that her guest was not going to politely evaporate. "Was there a shift change? Are you my new waitress?" she asked.
"I'm not a waitress," the newcomer informed her. "You're Olive Ruskettle," she said, not really questioning, but not quite certain either. "Maybe," Olive muttered. "And you're employed by House Thalavar."
"Maybe," Olive said with a sigh. She took another gulp of her drink.
"And you were a friend of Alias of the Inner Sea," said the other halfling.
Olive slammed her mug down hard. "What in the Abyss do you want, child?"
The other halfling blinked for a moment, as if shocked by Olive's outburst. Finally, she replied, "My name is Winterhart. I met Alias last summer in the Dalelands. I understand she is dead, and you were her friend. Please accept my condolences. I am also seeking employment. I've spent most of my days as an adventuress, so I have little experience as a servant, but Alias said I could use her as a reference. Does House Thalavar have use for a capable halfling?"
Olive seethed silently. The friend-of-the-dead trick was an old halfling con. She was insulted that someone thought she was good enough to play it using Alias's name, and insulted that anyone thought her fool enough to fall for it. "You were a friend of Alias, too, hmm?"
"We met and talked," Winterhart responded calmly. "I -was impressed by her. I am truly sorry she is dead."
Well, Olive thought, at least she's smart enough not to claim that Alias was an old friend from way back. Aloud she asked, "And you knew her from the Dalelands?" "Yes." Winterhart's head bobbed just a tad.
"Then you know what song she first sang in the taproom of the Old Skull Inn," Olive said offhandedly.
"It was The Standing Stone," Winterhart said, displaying the first trace of a smile, "an old elven tune with words by Finder Wyvernspur, the Nameless Bard. That was an easy one. Want to ask what her favorite color was?"
"Her favorite color was blue," Olive lied, waiting for Winterhart to take the bait.
"Red," Winterhart corrected. "Blue reminded her of her tattoo, which she thought of as a symbol of her previous enslavement. Shall I tell you how she first met Elmin-ster, or how she nearly skewered Giogi Wyvernspur, or in which boot she kept her throwing dagger?"
Olive smiled, delighted to be convinced of something for a change. "What is it you can do, Winnie?" she asked.
"The name is Winterhart, and I prefer Miss Winterhart," the younger halfling corrected. "I would make a suitable lady's companion. I am trained in human customs and dress. I am also skilled with the sword, dagger, and bow, and can provide protection for the young mistress."
Olive looked with some surprise at Winterhart. "Think fast!" she snapped and threw her half-full mug at the younger haifling.
Miss Winterhart dodged slightly to her right, her left hand snaking up and snaring the mug by its handle. She set it down smoothly without spilling a drop and slid it back in Olive's direction.
Olive's reflexes were too deadened by drink to stop the mug in time. It slid into her lap, drenching her with its contents of liquor-laced ale. Olive stood up and cursed.
"Drinking is a filthy habit," Winterhart declared. "I have no truck with it."
Olive cursed some more as she tried unsuccessfully to brush the liquid from her leggings.
"And bad language is another thing," Winterhart added primly. "Foul words lead to foul deeds."
Olive did not reply. She studied Winterhart as carefully as she was capable of in her inebriated condition. The girl had fast reflexes and a strong will. If she was telling the truth about being skilled with weaponry and proved to have a modicum of haifling sense, she might be just the sort of woman suitable to take over as Thistle's bodyguard.
There was something else about Winterhart that impressed Olive. It was not the woman's sobriety and primness, but what Olive sensed, or imagined she sensed, lay behind those traits. Winterhart had been hurt somehow, in the past, and she held herself tightly in check so that she didn't fall apart. It didn't make her a powerful ally, but it meant she had just the sort of strength Olive lacked. Nothing, Olive realized, could take away the pain of Alias's death. With Winterhart behind her, however, Olive knew she would find the courage to avenge the swordswoman's death. She would make the Night Masks pay for Alias's murder, and if she found out Victor Dhostar was involved, she would make him pay, too.
Had Olive been sober, such an unrealistic goal might never have occurred to her-she was far too cautious. She was not sober, though, and she saw in Winterhart not just a haifling seeking employment, but a sign from the gods.
"Mistress Ruskettle, do you have an answer for me?" Winterhart demanded.
Olive smiled grimly at the other haifling. "All right," she agreed. Til give you a trial period. But 111 be watching you like a hawk!"