Riverwind looked. The axe’s ironwood haft was dotted with dark finger holes.
“Neat, huh?” the kender asked. “I had it specially made. It’s a pain unscrewing the axe head and taking out all the rope, but, ‘It’s not a proper weapon unless it can play a tune,’ as my father used to say. Of course,” he added sadly, “poor Father couldn’t carry a tune in a wheelbarrow. He was a great hero, but unlike myself, completely tone deaf. So’s Catt, you know.”
“I am not,” Catt snapped.
Kronn glanced back at her, a mischievous grin on his face. “Give us a song, then.”
Catt glowered at him, her lips pursing. “I don’t feel like it.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Kronn said. He leaned toward Riverwind, whispering conspiratorially. “Good thing, too. Her voice can curdle milk.”
Behind them, his sister harrumphed loudly.
“Hey,” he went on, “we’re both so musical, we should play a duet together sometime.”
They stopped at the boardwalk, facing the row of inns and taverns that overlooked the docks. Riverwind looked up and down the wharf, then his eyes fixed on a low building with walls of mortared flagstones and a slate-shingled roof. Gaily colored awnings hung above its stained-glass windows, and a pair of brass lanterns flickered on either side of its open front door. A smile of recognition curled his lips.
“Yes,” he said. “I would like to play with you, Kronn. How about tonight?” With that, he started toward the inn.
Blinking in surprise, the kender hurried to catch up.
The wind picked up as nighttime settled over Port Balifor, and the front windows of the Pig and Whistle tavern began to moan. Slowly, the noise grew louder, rising to a shrill keening that rattled the glasses above the bar.
William Sweetwater glanced at the windows, his fat face puckering with disgust. “I really ought to fix them damn things,” he grumbled.
“Bah,” scoffed old Erewan the Shaggy, who sat on his usual stool at the bar, nursing a tankard of foaming black ale. His long, yellow-gray beard quivered as he scowled.
“Ye’ve said the same bleedin’ thing every night for the past forty years, Pig Face.”
“I mean it this time,” William shot back sourly. “Put an end to that bloody racket, once and for all.”
“Talk, talk,” crowed Nine-Finger Pete, hunching over a mug of foul-smelling grog.
William Sweetwater grunted, a porcine sound that matched his countenance perfectly He had been born with the mark of a pig on his face: small, squinting eyes, full cheeks, and a sharply upturned nose. Now that he was well over eighty years of age, his sagging jowls, bristling gray whiskers and enormous girth-the Pig and Whistle’s regulars often expressed their amazement that he could even fit behind the bar-gave him the appearance of a stout and grizzled old boar.
The lamplight that streamed in through the tavern’s open doors flickered as a group of travelers came in. The regulars looked up, squinting, then stared with red and rheumy eyes as the five strangers made their way to a booth near the back. Strange visitors were far from rare at the Pig and Whistle-Port Balifor was a wayfarer’s town, after all-but this party held their attention.
“Barbarians and kender,” Nine-Finger Pete muttered, and took a swig from his mug. “Bloody bones. Good thing this dump’s got nothin’ worth stealin’, eh Pig Face?”
William Sweetwater wasn’t paying attention, though. His low brow furrowed as he watched the travelers-three Plainsfolk from Abanasinia and two kender-settle into their seats. His gaze fixed on the oldest of the barbarians in particular-a tall, stern man with white hair. “I know that one,” he muttered, thinking fiercely. “I’ve seen him before somewhere…
One of the kender-a male with an axe on his back and odd chestnut braids hanging over his cheeks, looked William’s way and snapped his fingers, breaking the old innkeeper’s concentration. “Ale here!” he called. “In clean cups, if you please. And some of whatever’s on the spit.”
Erewan grinned, his eyes narrowing to crinkly slits.
“You heard the little squeaker,” he snickered. “Step lively, Pig Face.”
With a withering look at the bristle-bearded old salt, William grabbed a handful of mugs and waddled to the keg of Arnsley Black he’d tapped earlier that day. He bellowed into the kitchen as he poured the newcomers’ drinks, and by the time he was on the fourth beer, a wench brought a tray of bread, cheese, and roast mutton to the table. William filled the last mug, blew nut-brown foam onto his well-stained floor, and waved the wench away when she came to collect the mugs. “Get back to yer work,” he grumbled. “I’ll take these to them myself.”
With some effort, he squeezed out from behind the bar, grabbed up the tray of drinks, and puffed over to the table. His gaze was fixed on the old Plainsman the whole way, and when he drew near to the table, his eyes widened and he started so violently that he nearly dropped the tray. “Great holy Habbakuk,” he cursed, amazed. “It is you, at that.”
Riverwind of Que-Shu looked at up him and smiled. “Hello, William,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
The other travelers looked at the old barbarian, confused. “Father?” asked one of the other Plainsfolk, a young, golden-haired lass. “Do you know this man?”
Riverwind nodded. “We met a long time ago, Brightdawn, during the war. William was good enough to give us a place to rest, even though we didn’t have the steel to pay him.”
“Bah,” William snorted as he passed out the drinks. He clapped Riverwind on the back. “It were the least I could do. Your father, lass, was part o’ the finest travelin’ circus ever to pass through these parts.”
Riverwind’s companions looked at him in surprise. “Circus?” Brightdawn asked. “You, Father?”
The Plainsman cleared his throat, his cheeks slowly turning red. “Well, I would hardly call it a circus…”
William interrupted him with a laugh. “You mean yer da here never told ye, lass?” he asked. “He and his mates were the Red Wizard and His Wonderful Illusions.”
“The Red Wizard and His-” the male kender gasped, his mouth dropping open. “That was you, Riverwind?”
“Sure it was!” William declared, beaming proudly. “They got their start right here, in this very room.”
“So,” he said warmly, “what brings you away from the Plains this time? Where ye bound?”
“Kendermore,” the male kender answered.
The Pig and Whistle’s patrons stared at them, dumbfounded, then began to laugh. William slapped his broad belly, snorting with mirth. Riverwind and his companions looked back, the Plainsfolk frowning and the kender wide-eyed with confusion.
“What’s so funny?” the female kender asked.
Suddenly, William stopped laughing. “Zeboim’s twenty teats,” he blurted, staring at Riverwind. “Ye’re serious?”
The old Plainsman nodded slowly, his lips pressed firmly together.
“Kendermore?” asked Nine-Finger Pete, his voice rising with disbelief. “Why in the Abyss would you want to go there?”
Riverwind leveled a piercing glare at the ancient seaman. “Because,” he said simply, “they need our help.”
The old sailor snorted derisively, turning back to his grog. “Bloody idiot,” he muttered softly-but not soft enough.
“Shut yer hole, you mangy cur!” William barked toward the bar. “Talk that way about my friends again, and ye’re barred from my place. I mean it.” He turned to Riverwind and smiled. “I’m sorry. Pete’s been pickling in that slop he drinks for so long, he ain’t got half a brain left. Eat. Drink. There’s more where that came from, too. It’s on the house! Ye’re my guests, all o’ ye.”
That said, William bowed-a valiant feat, given his girth-and waddled back to the bar. Neither the Plainsman nor his companions missed the look in his eyes, however, as he turned away from the table. Though he would never say so, William clearly thought little more of Riverwind’s quest than did Nine-Finger Pete.
The candles on the Pig and Whistle’s bar had melted to misshapen stumps when Riverwind rose from his chair. He wobbled slightly as he did so-Arnsley Black was a potent brew, and the companions had put away a healthy dose of it-but he quickly steadied himself and waved to William.