“Have you fallen asleep standing up, man?” Sot’s angry voice bellowed from behind the bar. “There’s tables to clean and orders to take! Move yourself with some alacrity inside my pub, or you’ll be moving yourself even faster to the doorway.”
Ren shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered, and he began working the tables again. There was comfort in the mind-numbing dullness of the job. He could think—or not think—as he chose, and continue his work. He brought four flagons of ale to one table, five bowls of Sot’s renowned pork and cabbage soup to another, two glasses of wine to yet another. He mopped the floor where a pig of a youth had spilled a pitcher of gravy, and he cleared three tables so a band of young fighters could sit and slurp beer till they dropped.
He’d been working for Sot for nearly three weeks now, the most recent of a baker’s dozen of odd jobs he’d held as he traveled aimlessly since leaving Waterdeep. It had been more than a year since he’d practiced thieving, the trade he’d taken up when he met Tempest, more than a year since the bastard assassins had killed her over some goods he and she had stolen from a member of the assassins’ guild. They hadn’t known when they lifted the gems and daggers that their mark was the head of the guild—not that they would have left him alone had they recognized him, but Ren knew now that if he had it to do over again, he would gladly have returned even the precious ioun stones and anything else in his possession to have kept Tempest from harm.
He still awakened night after night with the vision of her standing there, screaming a silent scream as a dagger lodged deep in her left breast. The wound would probably have killed her anyhow, but the assassins had treated the knife with a madman’s poison that had left her body twitching and flopping on the floor of their bedroom until Ren was forced to put her out of her misery. Oh, he’d killed the three who murdered his beloved, killed them while they were still in his home, but they were mere hirelings for the head of the guild, who was the one really responsible for Tempest’s murder. He still had a price out on Ren’s head for the return of the daggers and ioun stones, which were still in his possession. But Ren didn’t care. The bastard would get the ioun stones from Ren when he fought him in the Abyss, but not before.
Ren delivered another order of food and booted a drunken troublemaker out the door. To the people around him, he was merely a bigger-than-average barkeep, a large fellow with matted, gnarled hair and a rumpled tunic. That was just the impression Ren wanted to give. He had no desire to confront any assassins until he could confront the one who’d ordered Tempest’s murder.
“Hey, big fella!” came a call from the bar. “Unless I miss my guess, you’ve got some muscles under those skunk coverings. What do you say you use some of that brawn of yours to bring us some food and a couple more pitchers?” The speaker was one of three women fighters who’d been in the pub together since early afternoon. The three had a catcall or a teasing invitation for almost every man who walked in the door, but they’d also given the boot to more than one of the men who’d made his way to the ladies’ table, hoping for a little friendly action.
“No problem, ladies,” said Ren, an amiable grin spreading across his face. The three were impressive. Each was dressed in fine quality chain mail that had seen plenty of use, and all three were bristling with swords, daggers, and throwing axes … also well used. The smallest of the three, a willowy brunette, and the tallest, a big muscular blonde, appeared to take their cues from the third woman, whose salt-and-pepper hair made her appear older. A man might be attracted to any of the three, but to Ren, who had been all but oblivious to women for a full year, all three seemed remarkably attractive, and even more so for their forwardness.
Ren slipped behind the bar and addressed his boss. “Sot, we’ve got a food and ale order from that table again,” said Ren, gesturing with a nod of his head. “Would you fill two of those pewter pitchers for me?”
The rotund old innkeeper looked at Ren curiously. The heavy pewter wares at which Ren was pointing were generally reserved for highborn lords or ladies, who occasionally found their way into Phlan’s busiest but not necessarily fanciest inn. Something in Ren’s expression left no room for argument, however, so the innkeeper obliged. Ren’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and he felt a certain warmth inside of him. He had kept to himself for too long. It was past time to blow off a little steam. He backed through the swinging door into the kitchen and barked at the cook. “Food, friend, and lots of it—on those big metal platters, if you please. Oh, and haul out three of those heavy metal trenchers to serve it in.”
“What’re ye thinkin’ of, laddie?” the grease-covered cook asked as he spotted the gleam in Ren’s eyes.
“Keep an eye out the door after you serve it up and you’ll soon see!” Ren replied lightly. The cook was a temperamental man, as feisty as he was short, and Sot tolerated him only because his tasty food was the inn’s main draw. Ship captains and traveling merchants alike made a point of visiting the Laughing Goblin Inn when they were in Phlan. Fortunately, Ren had managed to stay on the cook’s good side, and he wasn’t afraid to ask the man a favor if he knew he could offer a snatch of entertainment in return.
Ren pulled a giant war shield from behind the pantry shelves, a souvenir from a fighter who had tried to leave without paying his bill. A large man, with the skills of a ranger and a thief, Ren had a knack for “convincing” people to pay their bills. In fact, there hadn’t been many who couldn’t afford to pay since he’d started working for the inn, and that fact kept Sot more than happy. Ren gripped the shield firmly, then easily ripped the leather handles from it. Then he laid the cook’s big oak cutting board on top of it, followed by a linen cloth over the board. “Now help me load this thing with food, and grab those two tankards I just brought in.”
“Ya big galoot, ya don’t think you’re gonna lift that mass of metal an’ grub by yerself, do ya?”
“I most certainly am,” said Ren.
“Ha!” the cook blurted out after adding the pitchers from the bar to the tray. “I’ll part with a silver if that don’t weigh more than me.”
“I hope it does,” said Ren, smiling enigmatically. “Now, open the door for me, please.”
Ren dragged the shield off the counter and balanced it on his right hand. The cook gasped as he got an indication for the first time of Ren’s strength. There were few men as tall as Ren. The cook was sure by the way Ren had to duck under the doorway every time he came into the kitchen that he must be nearly six and a half feet tall. But he had never realized what kind of brawn the big man hid under his sloppy tunic. As Ren hoisted the huge war shield and the many pounds of metal on top of it, his muscles bulged till the loose-fitting tunic pulled tight around his arm, shoulder, and back. He used his left hand to balance the big tray as he stepped out into the crowded inn. The cook followed Ren to the door, shaking his head and reminding himself that he never wanted to get in a fight with this quiet man.